Unexpected Developments
by KCS
Summary: Sherlock died almost a year ago, and in his will left everything he possessed to John Watson, planning to reclaim his flat and possessions when he had disposed of the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate. He did not, however, plan on John (ever the quick mover) actually getting married in the interim - and settling with his newlywed bride into Sherlock's flat!
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Unexpected Developments (1/?)  
**Fandom**: BBC Sherlock  
**Characters**: John, Sherlock, Mary, various  
**Word Count**: (this bit) 889  
**Genre**: humor, friendship, possibly a bit of angst and h/c in future, who knows  
**Warnings/Spoilers**: spoilers for both seasons, vaguely EMPT-esque post-TRF fic. I suppose I should warn, for my readers, that there actually is a relationship in this (ACD canonesque het), but it is only vaguely romantic in that sense; this is, as always for me, a _gen_ story, and primarily Sherlock & John oriented.  
**Summary**: _Sherlock died almost a year ago, and in his will left everything he possessed to John Watson, planning to reclaim his flat and possessions when he had disposed of the remainder of the Moriarty syndicate. He did not, however, plan on John (ever the quick mover) actually getting married in the interim - and settling with his newlywed bride into _Sherlock's_ flat!_  
**Disclaimer**: If I owned them, S3 would have been in production by now.

**A/N:** Inspired by this prompt: _When John and Mary got married, she moved into 221B. Naturally it's madness sometimes, but fortunately she has 221C as her safe haven_., and by my own tentative re-interest in the Sherlock fandom. I fell out of love with the fandom due to the immense amount of Reichenangst floating around, and in the wake of that and a delayed S3 I think we all need a bit of humor/fluff/borderline crack/anything else my brain can come up with.

And, I've yet to see a BBC Sherlock fic that actually portrayed one of John's girlfriends as the type of woman I could actually see working in that universe without grossly offending either side of shippers. So. This little thing won't be everyone's cup of tea, but hopefully will be at least a decent read - not to mention practice for me to re-enter a fandom I've fallen out of long ago. I've always wanted to write a story involving Mary as I think she would work in this particular adaptation, so indulge me - and please be kind, as it's been a long while? :)

* * *

In his defense, this has never been a scenario he had envisioned. Not a part of the plan – or of any of the contingent plans.

When he had voiced as much to John, in the most reasonable and patient way possible, John had simply stared at him for a moment, fire igniting in his stormy eyes. He now finds himself edging backward in self-preservation, for his face remembers all too well John's firm right hook, and the rest of him remembers too well the way the man can hold a grudge with the best of them. And, he will admit, pretending to be dead for nearly a year does rank a bit higher an offense than leaving skewered eyeballs in the crisper, or putting John's laptop on the highest bookshelf out of sheer spite.

"Well, Sherlock." John's voice is amiable, pleasant – _dangerous_. "You shouldn't have died and left me the flat then, now should you."

He blinks, mental hard drive processing his initial answer to this query (hardly legally binding now, John, I could technically now have you evicted) and discarding it immediately as not the smartest of responses to a man who has barely yet stopped swiping away tears of joy and frustration at his return after a very long year of painful memories.

John is still looking at him, eyebrows – more grey in them than a year ago, and he feels a twinge of what must be Remorse at the knowledge that he is responsible – clenched fearsomely, though a twitch of fondness quirks at his lips as he watches his erstwhile flatmate-come-resurrected-miracle fumble for a Good Thing to say.

Not his area, they all know.

Finally he coughs, awkwardly, and wriggles deeper into the depths of his coat, retreating like a turtle into protective shell.

"I – that is…ehm." He casts a nervous look at the closed door which hides his former bedroom, wondering if they had simply boxed up his things, donated them to charity…in John's obviously aberrant mental state (really, this scenario was not one he could have ever anticipated), he should be pleased the doctor did not just _torch_ the entire place. "Do you…wish me to find alternate accommodations, then?"

John looks very much like he is about to do just that, returned-from-the-dead or no returned-from-the-dead, but a gentle swat upside the back of his head has him yelping in surprise and turning a glare to his left, where the object of their discussion has walked up and very neatly derailed the rampant emotion that had swamped the room after his shocking reappearance.

"Stop being mean to the poor man, John," Mrs. Mary Watson – Sherlock's mind trips over the name, because it just screams Wrong and yet it exists here, in front of him, in his flat – chides sternly, and a moment later he is startled to receive a quick peck on the cheek as the woman sweeps on past them into the kitchen.

John stares open-mouthed after his wife, looking remarkably like a cable-knit Koi fish.

"You know full well you're thrilled as anything to see him alive, John, so do stop pretending otherwise," her voice carries back through the open sliding glass door. "Holding a grudge is so undignified, darling. Mr. Holmes, do you take cream or sugar in your tea?"

"I _like_ her," Sherlock declares suddenly, and then wonders a bit sheepishly where the words came from.

John glares at him. "Good on you. By the way, we've turned your bedroom into a nursery."

He blanches with horror, whereupon John dissolves at last into a fit of giggles, the most welcome sound Sherlock has heard in months – the sound of _home_. "Sherlock, your face!" John splutters at last, holding his sides. "You great idiot, no one's been in there for six months; God knows what you had growing about with those experiments of yours. Have fun with that bit, by the way; I wasn't about to clean it without the reinforcements of an exterminator."

Tension leeches from his body, leaving him feeling rather like an unstrung instrument, limp and tired and yet strangely…not happy, but at least content.

A clink of china, and the strange Woman who somehow finagled John Watson into falling so deeply in love that he looks healthier and happier than Sherlock has ever seen, sets a tray containing three steaming mugs down on the table nearby.

"Rule one," Mary says pleasantly, delicately-shaped eyebrows raised toward him. "This purple mug? Is mine. The others are fair game, but there will be consequences for touching this one. _Severe_ consequences."

Sherlock stares at her for a bit, and then grins ferally, already taking up the thrown gauntlet and secreting it away in a brand-new room of his Mind Palace.

Feeling oddly like a third wheel, John decides he needs something a bit stronger than tea and stumbles out to the kitchen. The sounds of a rapidly escalating catfight begin behind him, and he shakes his head.

He'd often wondered, in those early days of the dating scene, what might happen if he ever – wonder of wonders! – met a woman who could actually both love him, and at least tolerate Sherlock Holmes.

Well, after all, ten months ago John Watson stood over a simple grave, commanding a dead man to return – and he _obeyed_.

Surely one more miracle is not too inconceivable?


	2. Chapter 2

The first three days were awkward.

In the extreme.

Primarily because neither John nor Mary were at home much at all. Sherlock had seen a flash of blonde hair – highlighted and neatly cut in the most modern of styling and presumably attractive, he supposed – as the latter left in the early hours of the morning, followed an hour or so later by the darker blond of her husband's. Each of them departing for their occupations of choice, the working man and woman.

Off to their pedestrian, plebian, paycheque-producing jobs.

So disgustingly _boring_.

And so it is on the fourth day that he meanders his way into the kitchen, well after the hour his flatmate – flatmates (!) – have risen each day thus far. John bought tea last night, he'd heard the rustle of Tesco bags being flung about late amid some rather colourful swearing about demon-possessed chip-and-pin machines and the priceyness of Sherlock's favorite type of gourmet chocolate biscuits. Sherlock had smiled unseen into his microscope (now moved into his bedroom, as the cleanliness of the kitchen table was an incontrovertible Rule Three); some things never change, apparently.

Intent as he is now upon his yet half-asleep search for Earl Grey, he rather thinks he can be forgiven not immediately noticing the figure standing in front of the rangetop, stirring something in a small skillet.

Unfortunately for him (and his tea-deprived mind), it appears that entering a communal room clad in nothing more than black silk pants and a hastily-snatched afghan is a Bit Not Good.

Mary Watson takes one wide blue-eyed look at him, and he suddenly realises one, his state of (un)dress; and two, that that is probably Not Done in proper circles. True, his flatmate's wife is in a sateen dressing gown, but it is completely modest by any and all standards.

And judging from past experience, apparently his own attire is not.

"Um," he hazards awkwardly, edging back toward the bedroom door. He is aware that most Regular People would be appalled by his actions, and while in his defense he has never had to be so well-behaved in his own flat, he does recognise there are certain barriers which probably should not be crossed.

Yet.

Rather than flying into a rage or hiding her eyes amid exclamations of aghast surprise, however, Mary Watson's lips curve in a hint of a gentle smirk.

"Yes, well. Mr. Holmes." She gives the scrambled eggs another brisk stir, and he can see a faint colour rising in her cheeks despite her amusement. "I assure you that tall, dark, and scrawny isn't my type at all; but that doesn't mean I want to be slapped in the face with a nearly-naked man every time I've a day off. Think we could work on that, a bit?"

He snatches two tea bags and the nearest dry cup, stashing them like a thieving schoolboy in his afghan, and scuttles back to his bedroom.

Annnnnd then realises once the door closes on her giggling, that he rather needs hot water to make tea. After a brief internal struggle on the merits of breaking open the tea bag and simply chewing the contents (absorption rates are a tricky business, and it would be a rather interesting experiment), his caffeine-deprivation wins out over his pride, and he returns to the scene of his crime against The Common People and their ridiculous mores.

His flatmate's wife (he has not yet asked – has no intention of asking – her to call him Sherlock, and it would be rather rude to presume and call her by her first name without reciprocation) is smiling to herself, stacking two empty plates and cups on a tray already containing a dish of steaming eggs and ham as well as a pitcher of orange juice.

"I put the kettle on for you," she says mildly, and only raises a pert eyebrow at his blink of surprise. "You're welcome," is the dry addition, accompanied by another disbelieving look at his midsection, and he unconsciously shifts to hide himself more fully in the afghan.

A last glance at the tray tells him all he needs to know about the miscalculation; obviously, the two of them have a day off their ridiculously inadequate jobs; either planned or coincidental. Inference: loud experiments or those involving noxious fumes will not be welcomed, nor would today be a good day to dissect the bowl of tadpoles on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Mrs. Watson picks up the tray and moves to the door, silken dressing gown trailing delicately around slipper-clad feet. "John's bit a bit stressed of late. Breakfast in bed," she explains, as if Sherlock is too stupid to make the deduction himself.

He bristles.

"If you've noise-canceling headphones, I'd find them, by the way," she adds wickedly, and sashays up the stairs.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock slams the door behind them and they both fall against the wall in a shared fit of laughter that rumbles in the creaking house and echoes off the papered hall.

"I – cant believe, Sherlock –" John gasps between giggles, as he doubles over to catch his breath, "that you actually tried to pull that off. I mean."

"I am a consummate actor!"

"Who doesn't bloody know the planets in order or who's the PM at the moment, yes, Sherlock. Jolly good. Trying to pass yourself off as a fashion blogger when your knowledge of the industry extends no further than shopping the Armani website was not your smartest idea."

"And I suppose you would have been a better candidate for the job?" Sherlock grumbles, flopping his rain-soaked coat over the banister.

"Actually, yeah, I would." John patiently removes the coat and hangs it on a peg beside the door, followed shortly by his own snappy dark blue jacket, a gift from Mary and one that he was thrilled to have in weather like this (the fact that Sherlock had stared at it for a moment in fascination, rather than his usual disgust, had just been a bonus).

Sherlock's snort clearly shows his indignant skepticism. "How so? Having a crime blog hardly makes you qualified for the work in general." Their steps squelch on the stairs, and John makes a mental note to notify Mrs. Hudson to not try them with her bad hip until they dry out.

Sherlock is still nattering on with all the enthusiastic force of a hurricane. "…Also, you have absolutely no regard for the fashion industry, as the deplorable state of your jumper-filled wardrobe clearly attests to even the most remedial observer." John only raises an eyebrow, which is promptly ignored as they stumble into the warm lounge. "The idea is preposterous, John; what on earth makes you think your funny little brain would be more qualified to maintain the façade than _mine_?"

"_John Hamish_, you did _not_ wear that Burberry diesel jacket out chasing a blackmailer along the docks!"

Sherlock stares. John grins smugly.

"You mean to tell me, Sherlock, that that great brain of yours hasn't yet deduced that my wife is in the industry?"

* * *

"You wore it to spend a night crouching in a skip!"

"Mary –"

"A SKIP, John! Wearing two hundred pounds' worth of gabardine and leather!"

"Mary, really, I like it, it's bloody warm and looks sharp, and anyway you did buy it for me to _wear_, didn't you? Or was it just because you didn't want to walk out with me wearing –"

"Darling, do shut up," Mary interjects, dropping a kiss on his nose that effectively soothes his suddenly injured dignity. "I didn't buy it for you because I'm ashamed of your fashion sense, so stop the hurt puppy act. I bought it because I love you." She bestows a second kiss on his cheek, more companionable than romantic, but nonetheless calming. "And because I have connections with the regional buyer," she adds honestly, after a moment of thought.

Across the room at the table, Sherlock inhales a biscuit and chokes on it, effectively distracting the conversation.

"All right there?"

Sherlock makes a _carry on, do_ gesture with the hand not holding the serviette muffling the sound of his coughing.

"And yes, I did buy it for you to wear, John," Mary continues, hands on slim hips as she glares at him. "In fact, I bought it for you to wear so that when we _go_ _out like we were supposed to do tonight_, you'd feel comfortable meeting my colleagues."

John's face turns a comical shade of dear-god-am-I-in-trouble, and he slaps both hands over his face in mortification.

"Yes, exactly," his wife says dryly, as she snatches the plate of biscuits off the coffee table.

"Oi!"

"When you pay for them, then you can eat them all," she retorts, whereupon Sherlock promptly finds his teacup more fascinating than the conversation.

"Mary, look, darling, I totally forgot –"

"I had made that deduction for myself a half-hour after I had to call a cab to take me to the club, John," is the icy reply that drifts over her shoulder, as she retreats to the kitchen with Sherlock's stolen plunder.

"Mary, I'm sorry! I swear, I just forgot…"

"Good on you that you're already married, John, or it'd be on to girlfriend number twenty-four," Sherlock interjects, rather nastily, but then he has been suddenly deprived of the one thing he actually had an appetite to eat today.

"Mr. Holmes, unless you'd like me to do an early spring clean on this refrigerator of yours, you'll kindly stay out of the domestics!"

"Don't touch my defrosting pancreas! You promised!"

"You also promised to help me remember that social engagements trump your bloody cases!" John hisses, running a frantic hand through his cropped hair.

"It's hardly my fault that you're incapable of creating reminders on your phone for such things," Sherlock mutters, flopping his feet up onto the coffee table and sitting back to watch the proceedings.

"Mary, look – I really am sorry. I promise, I am," John tries again as his wife re-enters the room, sans biscuit plate and looking no less calm than she did upon their arrival home. "It won't happen again, I swear it won't. Your friends are important to me, Mary."

"And yours are to me, John," she replies pointedly, sending an icy blue glare at Sherlock, who only looks innocently at them over the rim of his cup. "That, I think, is rather the point."

John winces.

"At any rate, I am not one of those women who demand the wholehearted attention of their husbands," she says, voice almost dripping with sweetness.

John perks up slightly. "You're not angry, then?"

"Mm. Darling, I'm furious. But that doesn't do anyone any good, now does it?" She leans down to where he's sat dismally in an armchair, and kisses his forehead. "I've a plane to Milan in the morning, John, and so I'm going to turn in for the night."

John stares up at her, mystified by her calm acceptance, and waits for the other high-heeled shoe to drop.

It does. With style.

"Oh, and I do hope the couch is comfortable enough for you, darling. If not, I'm sure Mr. Holmes will be _happy_ to share his bed with you, since you've obviously chosen your priorities for the night," she says sweetly, and leaves the room before John can recover from that parting shot. Her footsteps trip lightly up the stairs and into their bedroom – whereupon the door locks.

John groans and drops his head into his hands.

Sherlock eyes him with detached interest, and downs the rest of his tea. He could do worse for late-night entertainment, after all. "I do have an extra lock-picking kit, John."

"Oh, shut _up_, Sherlock."

* * *

Sherlock meanders out of his bedroom (where he has spent the last few hours alone in his bed, thank you very much) around four in the morning, in search of something edible that will not put him further on the formidable Mrs. Watson's hit list. Now that the case is solved, he is ravenous, and one benefit of having a married flatmate is that there usually is actual Real Food in the house rather than just the odd bachelor-friendly pot noodle.

He takes a precautionary look into the lounge, and sees that John is still fast asleep on the couch, forehead furrowed as the cramped space plays havoc with his bad shoulder.

But a closer examination (scientific curiosity, and besides Mary will be in Milan, leaving Sherlock to deal with a cranky ex-soldier come morning) reveals that someone – not Sherlock – has carefully placed a thermal patch on the site of John's old wound, and a fluffy duvet is covering the man's scrunched-up form as he snores away, oblivious to the world.

Sherlock spares a moment to admire the tactical genius of the Woman, and then scuttles off to find his mobile.

Mary looks askance at him when she enters the kitchen a half-hour later, Gucci heels clicking on the tile and her designer suit carefully pressed. A wheeled briefcase and carry-on pause with her, the spinning of the wheels loud in the silence.

"I called a cab for you," he offers, by way of an olive branch.

"I'd planned to take the Tube to Heathrow," she replies, just as cordial.

"It's already paid for."

"Ah. Well, then. In that case, thank you."

He nods blithely, and proceeds to stuff the remaining biscuit in his mouth.

Blue eyes roll ceiling-ward, and Mary retrieves her passport from the tray on the counter. "Take care of him," she says suddenly, and he glances up to see her eyes on the sleeping form of his erstwhile partner in crime. "I'll be gone for three days. Make sure he doesn't starve to death?"

"And how exactly am I expected to accomplish that?" he asks indignantly, for it is hardly his area (and he cannot remember to eat regularly himself, how is he supposed to convince John to do so?).

She pauses, eyebrow slanted upward. "Try setting a reminder on your phone," she suggests dryly, and leaves him scowling at the empty biscuit plate.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock does rather well, he thinks, in his flatmate's wife's absence, of making sure John remembers to eat regularly and gets to sleep at a decent hour. That is, until Lestrade calls him with a triple murder that's just been resurrected from cold case status by a new killing following the old pattern.

John is more reluctant than he'd like to accompany him, protesting that he hasn't called in to skive off work in over six months and he isn't about to waste his precious stock of days off to follow Sherlock around making notes and generally looking like a right idiot.

Sherlock pulls out the big guns – saying _please_, and adopting an expression reminiscent of a starving, wet kitten – and finally, John gives in, and they get a cab to the Yard, just like old times.

Just like old times indeed, he thinks gleefully, as they pursue the serial killer through the back streets and alleys of London; just the two of them and a madman, without any of the trappings that came along with Moriarty's syndicate. Just him, and John, and the night air cold and exhilarating around them.

He chases the man up a spiraling, rickety fire escape to the top of a tenement (where Parkinson thinks he's going, Sherlock doesn't know, because that particular tenement has a good fifteen meter gap between it and the surrounding buildings, and even he is not foolish enough to try and leap that distance), shouting to John to head around the back of the building, in case there is a second fire escape or other avenue of prepared escape from the rooftop.

He scrambles off the fire escape with a clang of metal and thud of shoes skittering on loose gravel and debris, and sees Parkinson skid to a halt at the opposite edge of the roof, whirling around frantically and waving the murder weapon, a nasty-looking antique dagger, in his direction.

Expecting the usual confrontation followed by the killer's surrender to the inevitable, Sherlock is not overly worried; he is quite able to escape the path of a clumsily-wielded weapon such as that heavy knife, and Parkinson has apparently nowhere to go.

But he barely has time to open his mouth in the usual confrontation, when a forceful gust of wind, wet and chilled from the Thames, whips about the tenement rooftop. Parkinson's arms windmill frantically, and he teeters wildly for a minute on the edge of the rooftop. Sherlock rushes forward, but he is too late; the man plunges over the side with a defiant scream that soon dies below. All he can see upon looking over the side of the building is the darkness of a barely-lit alleyway.

_Tedious_, he thinks in disgust, as he clambers back down the fire escape. He shoots off a text to Lestrade, asking him to bring along a cleanup crew, and walks in annoyance around the building to the back. What's left of Parkinson is on the concrete of a tiny, rather pathetic patio in the alley behind the building, and it's quite obvious that their work here is done.

He only realizes then, that he is quite alone bending over the rather gory remains of their serial killer, and he squints around in the dim light until he sees a small figure leaning up against the dingy brick of the building opposite.

"John?" he calls in annoyance, because what was the idiot _doing_ while Sherlock was up chasing after their killer?

The alley's single dim street lamp is too far away, and so he pulls out his phone. The bluish light illuminates John's white face with startling, frightening clarity. His friend – because he is that much, as Sherlock would hardly jump off a building for someone who is of less consideration – is pale as paper, trembling and hunched into his short coat like he's seen a ghost.

Wait…

…jump off a building.

_Idiot_.

The harsh hiss of his self-deprecating swearing is painfully loud in the silence, and he holds the phone closer, his free hand closing on John's shoulder. John's eyes close briefly, forehead pinched and lined with stress.

"I'm sorry," he blurts, because it is the Good Thing to say, isn't it, even though it really is no fault of his? "I didn't think, John…"

"Not like you knew he'd take a dive off a roof, Sherlock." The words are barely audible, whispered into the gust of wind which has whipped again through the alley, carrying the stench of decay and blood with it. John's lapel flaps idly against his chest, as he hunches further into the inadequate jacket with a convulsive shiver.

"Thought I'd be past that, now. Evidently not. I…ngh." Like a marionette whose strings have snapped, John's knees suddenly give out, and it's luck more than skill that has Sherlock in the right position to help him slide down the wall to sit on the cold pavement, head between his knees.

"All right…it's all right, John." The words are trite by now, overused in the thousand apologies he owes this man for countless wrongs, and yet it is all he knows to say. He hastily struggles out of his coat and tosses it over John's hunched form in lieu of a blanket, because what else can he really do since he's rubbish at this whole comforting lark? He sits uncomfortably on the slightly damp ground beside John, and nervously picks at a loose string on his trouser-cuff.

John straightens up after only just a moment, though he doesn't relinquish the coat, only tugs it closer, shivering even with the added warmth. They sit there for a few minutes, silently watching the darkness of the night around them.

Sherlock's mobile chirps, the backlight of the small screen illuminating their faces in sharp contrast.

"Lestrade's on his way. Wants to know if you're all right, all things considered," he reads, and feels John's half-hysterical snort.

They sit in silence for a few more minutes, and he can feel John's shivering gradually easing, the tension disappearing between them slowly. They are not quite all right, perhaps will never be; how can they be, with what has happened.

John shivers again suddenly. "I may not be able to do this, y'know, Sherlock," he admits, mainly to the darkness and Sherlock's coat. "The whole. Uhm. Running over rooftops thing. Not for a bit, at least. Yeah, no. I still can't watch the Dr. Who finale."

He ignores the reference, because he has no clue what it means, but he can deduce enough to know what John's too embarrassed to say clearly. "Solid ground only for you then," he agrees, though he can make no promises that he won't use every method open to him to chase down a criminal.

He glances surreptitiously to his left just in time to see that John looks faintly ashamed, blushing in the pale light of his phone as he returns Lestrade's text.

"You know it was three months before I dared get back into a black cab," he blurts out without thinking, a rare occurrence.

"Six weeks before I could even stand to eat Chinese, Sherlock."

"I'd be perfectly content to never see a public swimming pool again."

"I have nightmares about glowing rabbits."

"I really, really despise fairy tales."

"I still have to rein in the urge to shoot your brother every time I see him."

"Nothing new there, then."

They both laugh, a short, breathy burst of giggles that is more reaction than genuine amusement, but it does the trick, and before long they are both relaxed, yawning as they sit against the brick of a filthy London tenement, heedless of the bloody corpse only meters away.

His phone chirps again.

"Lestrade?"

"No," he groans dismally, staring at the screen. _Make John Go to Bed_ is the title of the alarm that winks cheerfully at him. "Your wife is going to kill me."


End file.
